To Remember
by cosmiicveins
Summary: She's one of the few – and the only in an entirely different category – that Peter Pan will not, cannot, forget. [petique drabble, for Day 4 of the Convergence Creation Week 2017]


**The Convergence Creation Week 2017.**

* * *

 **Day 4 - Memories.**

Red and swollen lips move up along her jawline. They brush lightly-tanned skin, and make their way to the focal point of quiet, teasing murmurs. He isn't focused on the words. He merely silences them, with a firm kiss, as his body presses her back against the wall. Eyelids flutter open, so that emerald irises peek out and look at rosy cheeks and wisps of stray, wavy blonde hair. And, more importantly, blue eyes. Incredibly blue, and they look back at him in such a way, that at this moment, even Peter Pan cannot help but drown in them.

Everything about Peter Pan's very existence screams "overkill." There's been over 500 years spent with exactly that, after all. It comes in exaggerations, precautions, theatrics… any outlet you can think of. Even something as simple as a single kiss – or a couple dozen – are so much more to a mind always searching the nooks and crannies for anything that might benefit him. Please him (and, lately, benefit and please **_her_** as well).

He hears his name, _Peter_ , escape her lips as he releases them from his hold, and moves up along her jaw once more. To the corner of her ear, as his hands hold her tightly. Possessively. There is no affection without **_possession_** with Peter. There are some parts of Pan that cannot be washed away with domestic bliss and healthy relationships.

He hums, deep in his throat; it sounds slightly like a growl, as one hand releases one of her slender wrists, and moves down her side. His fingers feel every wrinkle in her shirt, every curve of her hip. They feel the smoothness of skin, on her upper arms, and her side when fingers peek beneath her shirt. Meanwhile, the corner of his barely-open eyes map out every single strand of hair.

That's what this is. A map. Every little piece of Dominique Weasley is poked and prodded, kissed and embraced, until he surrounds her, weaving about every cell and atom. Every little wrinkle on her face, the crook of a limb, the beauty mark on smooth skin, is memorized and stored away. Sharp mind works like spinning gears. A hair darker than the others. The depth of those eyes. Tulip lips that are now ducking down, pressing soft but deep kissing to his neck. The pads of his fingers, along with every other part of him, dedicate her to a most rare and protected corner of his mind, where little lie but shadows.

In a few hours, she's asleep. Clothes a bit more wrinkles then before, and her legs are tangled in his dark gray sheets; hair cast out like splattered paint across his pillows. Peter himself is awake though, finishing the blueprints in his head. Every little snapshot his eyes might have caught of her get filed away, sorted, sealed.

As we've acknowledged, he's a master at **_overkill_**. One cannot deny this once they also account that the angel-assuming face before him, peaceful in slumber, serene in blessed dreams, is not the only one that is dedicated to a special map. Each smile is there as well; and more importantly, every frown. Scowl. Glare. These might even be remembered in more detail than each sweet look and affectionate touch, because of the long history behind them. Traced all the way back to a blind girl in a random alley, whom the boy had approached to deliver the news that her sister was dead, and it was his own fault.

Thinking back on that now, it should be noted that it had been in that instant, the second after his words left his lips… **_that_** expression, that flicker of fury and hurt and shock and horror, that had subconsciously made the decision that the face of Dominique Weasley was one he would not forget.

One might call it fate now, how during that period of instant tension and blossoming hate, the girl had already managed to make her way into such an exclusive part of Peter Pan. The mind of an immortal – an immature, youthful, petty immortal – is a forgetful one. Already gone are the faces of a man once called father, dozens upon dozens of lost boys buried or gone… and others more recent. A man with a sonic who called himself a doctor, and a woman named Sophia with her dog named Walter. A demigod named Jackson, and his friend named Percy. There are even more, with names also forgotten; they'll flash through his mind at the most random times of the night, or flicker for a moment when he's bored, before disappearing.

As you can see, to be remembered is quite a great honor, if you are absent for any period of time from days to years; and already, at that time of the first meeting, she was different. She still **_is_** different. Never before has Peter Pan ever devoted every part of his mind, and body, and heart, into a goal about someone besides himself. Never before to remembering a face. A touch. The lilt of a voice. The curve of lips as they morph from scowl to smile.

She's one of the few – and the only in an entirely different category – that Peter Pan will not, cannot, forget.

And if every image must be run over in his mind a million times, if he must reach out and touch her softly just for a moment (as he does now, to brush that hair from her face, the soft locks running through his fingers), or if he must randomly appear in her room, on her couch, behind her back, when that sudden, irrational fear crawls up his spine where he suspects he cannot recall a certain feature or expression or tone… if he must occupy nearly every part of him that as once dedicated to **_living_** and triumphing and existing in the world, just to guarantee her in his mind perfectly one second more.

So be it.

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 _Remembering the past gives power to the present._


End file.
